


Long Way Down

by goddamnhella



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-25 23:45:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9852368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goddamnhella/pseuds/goddamnhella
Summary: A year after the Battle of the Five Armies, two dwarves, a man and an elf fall down a mine shaft in Erebor.





	

The ground had crumbled beneath them so suddenly that Bard’s only warning had been the lurch of his stomach as he pitched downward, and then everything had turned to shouting and the dull roar of falling rock. Entering the mining tunnels of Erebor had been an impulse, a mere exercise in trust for all concerned, but when the collapse had happened it had taken three kings and one more.

“All right,” Bard said finally, blinking rock dust out of his eyes. His entire right arm was one bright ache, having taken the brunt of his fall through shale and ore. “Mayhap it would have been an easier thing to simply meet in Dale. Is everyone all right?”

“Aye, though a bit bruised and beaten,” Balin said, brushing rock shards out of his snowy beard. “Thorin, you’ve ah, you’ve got a bit of blood on the crown.” He gestured vaguely at his own temple.

“Yes, Balin,” Thorin rumbled, removing the entire piece and swiping at his brow. “It’s coming from my head. How much of the passage collapsed?”

Balin, who seemed entirely hale and whole despite his words, planted his hands on his hips and surveyed the damage with a critical eye. Bard busied himself with feeling his arm for any breaks or sprains. There were none, but the bruising would make his life difficult for a week at most. It would have made bargework a troublesome thing, but Bard hadn’t had to concern himself with that in over a year. Such was the life of the king.

“Seems to me the east passage has collapsed from end to end. I wouldn’t trust a stone in this pile to carry a raven’s weight, should we be foolish enough to try climbing free.” His sharp attention found Thorin in the near-darkness, but it skimmed Bard on its way. “We’ll be waiting it out, I’m afraid. Knowing Dwalin, he’ll have us out or chew through the rocks himself.”

Bard didn’t doubt it. After all, the loyalty and strength of the dwarves had started and ended one war already. No mere mine passage would stand in their way for long. But it did leave an uncomfortable thought behind: the passage had collapsed from above, trapping them in a large pocket of stone beneath it that smelled of dust and neglect. The only light Bard’s eyes could catch filtered from a ventilation hole in the stone at the passage’s end, where torches kept bright in the halls above sent a weak luminance streaming far below. By the time it reached them, the warm light had turned pale and cold.

It was entirely cold, in truth. Far from the braziers and roaring fires of the mountain, or the forges of molten metal with their roaring bellows and searing heat, their dark space held a sharp and dangerous chill that Bard didn’t like. Raised on many stories of eerie spirits and woeful ruin down in the old shafts of Erebor had left him mistrustful of the oppressive darkness, its icy fingers reaching beneath his tunic and thin leather.

Hunching against a smooth wall of rock, Bard watched Thorin tug his heavy furs closer around his shoulders with a rueful quirk of his mouth. He’d left his own cloak behind during the tour, relishing the cool relief after their trip through the forges. Thorin took a similar post against the opposite wall, which looked to be nothing more than rough-hewn stone, partially mined and seemingly abandoned. Balin, returning to his king’s side, sat with a grumbling sort of sigh and set to polishing the bloodstained crown with his sleeve.

Thorin ignored them both, his attention taken by the fourth figure that had fallen in the collapse—one who had given them his back and nothing more since they righted themselves in the gloom.

Thranduil stood apart from them all, at the end of the passage where the faint light washed a pale smear across the stone. The set of his shoulders was fiercely rigid, flowing into heavy robes of silk brocade that pooled around him. There was a tear in the fine material from their fall, but otherwise he was as unspoiled as ever.

The Elvenking hadn’t accepted the invitation to Erebor lightly, Bard guessed. Nor had Thorin extended it with anything less than the deep gravity in which it was intended. Peace between the realms of elves and dwarves was no easy thing, but in the year following their battle—one that had set Thorin at death’s door for long weeks—with old debts paid and an uneasy sort of quiet between them, the revision of their trade and alliances had beckoned them to Erebor’s great stone halls. Bard had gone willingly enough, with little to forestall his decision bar the approaching winter harvest.

With what ease and trust Thranduil had accepted the invitation, no-one knew. But on the sunrise he had arrived all the same, eyes hooded below the twisted silver of his crown, bringing a wagon of coveted silks and cured leather as a gift, though each bolt and hide had been traded and purchased with good coin in Dale. The politics of the gesture were mysterious to Bard, but Thorin had only waved them inside the gates with an unreadable glance.

Bard’s own gift had been far less: nothing more than the black arrow, drawn from Smaug’s submerged carcass and polished. Of dwarvish make, it felt somewhat like returning a gift, but Thorin and his council had flashed him stout looks of pride and approval, and his ale had been topped up and the best cuts of meat piled high on his plate during the feast. Thranduil, though given a seat of high honour on Thorin’s left, took a seat one further from the king’s side, and was also met with a satisfied glance. Bard had been left to fill the void between them, as Thorin’s right was occupied by a rather bemused hobbit.

Politics. Bard would be well done with the lot of it if it wasn’t what buttered his bread and kept his people in warm beds.

The tour of the mines proper had been an unplanned addition to their schedule, with meetings finishing surprisingly early. The usual allotted time for butting heads and shouting had gone unused, to Bard’s eye a thing best spent a year hence when their memories of the battle and losses had faded some. For the moment it was too fresh, their heads still bowed in remembrance of the lost. Balin had suggested the tour, to foster friendly sentiment as Erebor allowed allied kings a glimpse of their true trade, and the workforce that laboured eagerly within.

Even including the abrupt collapse of stone beneath them, Bard decided it had gone even better than any of them expected. But all the good intentions in the world wouldn’t dig them out of their stone prison.

“You’re shivering, laddie,” Balin pointed out off-handedly, his eyes still on the gold-worked crown in his lap. His movements were careful, not cunning. “Sit yourself by me, and mind that arm o’ yours.”

“The warmth down here is markedly less, I’ll admit,” Bard replied, his mouth curving slightly. “I thank you, but I’ll adjust in time.” In the corner of his eye, a stiff-backed figure standing in the last light of the passage looked far colder than he, but that had little to do with the temperature.

“Your stubbornness won’t keep you warm,” Balin replied, a hint of gentle censure in his words. Bard held down his smile. Balin had been the first of the company of Thorin Oakenshield to openly attempt negotiation with him; a canny and kind sort, surely a boon to Thorin and his kin.

“I promise you, Master Balin, should my stubbornness waver even a little I’ll be under your king’s cloak before you can blink.” He waited for Thorin’s startled glance before smiling in earnest. “’Tis a dim and gloomy hall you’ve picked for us, no doubt, but the company could be worse.”

“Some would disagree,” was all Thorin said, his eyes on Thranduil’s back. The darkness took most of the detail around Bard, but he saw the faint twist of Thorin’s mouth easily enough. It reminded him that there was an immeasurable gulf between peace and forgiveness, and all the treaties, debts paid and aid offered wouldn’t fill it.

They each settled back to wait out their unexpected detour, with Balin and Thorin hunched together on a flat stone ledge a small distance away, closest to the fallen rock that had barred their way out. Bard stayed leaning against his wall, sore in the arm and resigned to his cold wait for freedom.

His children wouldn’t fret at his delay, at least. Thranduil’s small entourage of wood-elves had thoroughly distracted them with their splendid outfits and weapons. They’d barely said a proper goodbye to Bard before they’d gone in for their discussions, Tilda already begging her sister to change her braids into something more elvish in style. Bain, on the other hand, had his eyes on the dwarves and their market of war-axes and hammers. What was wrong with an archer’s skill?

Bard was ruminating on the possibilities of what to buy them from the market before their departure when the dangerous crack of groaning support pillars sounded deep in the rock overhead. Debris rained in a soft shower of stone, but nothing fell. Yet. Squinting through the haze, Bard watched Balin and Thorin exchange a grim glance but say nothing. They didn’t move, which eased his concern somewhat, but whatever the sound had been alluded to nothing good.

“That was the western passage,” Thorin said after the last of the noises died away. “This used to be a transport tunnel for the ore on this level, but it was closed in favour of hoisting any material by pulley.” He shifted slightly, but met Bard’s eyes as best he could in the near-darkness. “We ceased digging such tunnels after the rock proved unfavourably brittle in this area.”

Bard glanced at the roof of their abandoned tunnel in alarm.

“The western passage just collapsed above us? Then we are buried twice over?” Movement in the corner of his eye took his attention. Thranduil had come alive from his stone vigil somehow, though Bard couldn’t tell how he’d shifted.

“We may be in for a long night,” Balin conceded. “But we’ve been hewing through stone and gem and gold for centuries, King Bard. They’ll have us out safely, of that I do not doubt.”

“It’s not the skill or tenacity of the dwarves I doubt,” Bard said frankly. “This stone on the other hand seems to hold no love for me.” All Balin could give him was an apologetic shake of his head. Beside him, Thorin’s mouth quirked slightly.

“You bear this trial well enough,” he commented, fingers moving over the seam of his cloak as he drew it around his shoulders more tightly. “Has the cold numbed your fear, or do you truly trust the dwarves to see you safe?”

It felt like a test to Bard, some quiet thing to seek the measure of him, but the time after the battle had softened their regard of each other to a mutual respect, if not always a mutual understanding. Thorin’s days of blind greed and hard-bitten declarations of war had been brief and faded long ago.

“I trust them to see you safe, my lord Thorin,” Bard said simply, flexing his cold fingers to keep them from stiffening. “And I trust you to see us safely from this place, then hopefully to a cup of ale and the nearest roaring fire.”

“I don’t recall ever earning that trust,” Thorin replied. Fabric rustled somewhere to Bard’s far right. “I’d thought you might suspect this to be some dark ploy against you.” Thorin jerked his chin to the figure at the end of the passage. “Or this one.”

Spreading his hands, Bard could only shake his head.

“Were you to have any designs on killing me down here, I believe I could match you in a fair fight. You’ve a head injury, after all—something to compensate for my numbing limbs.” He hesitated. “It’s Master Balin I’m not so sure of. He is uncommonly durable.”

There was a loaded silence. Then Thorin laughed quietly, a rolling thing of deep warmth that filled the cold darkness in the tunnel for a moment. Balin just frowned at them both and returned to his polishing, having none of their idle threats of harm. Thorin’s slight incline of his head was freely returned by Bard, who wanted nothing more than to knock him out and steal his cloak for warmth. It was turning frigid in the bleak little pocket of stone, but he had pride enough not to mention it. Yet.

Truth to tell, Bard was distracted from his deepening chill by Thranduil’s incredible silence. Had their alliance frayed so terribly in the face of politics and treaties that he no longer deserved word nor glance? No insult had ever been offered, that he could recall, yet Thranduil had been withdrawn and coldly quiet the entire duration of their meetings, except to argue certain points with Thorin and his council. Even then they had been clipped, emotionless things, as though Thranduil lacked the fire to argue—or simply had no fuel to dare within the halls of Erebor. Thorin had been reasonable enough by most standards, meting out terms of payment for goods and gems for trading, establishing goodwill and routes by which to travel unimpeded. There was no call for such stony regard.

Amusing himself briefly with his choice of words, Bard tucked his hands into the cuff of his opposite wrist, gripping the slightly warmer skin there. His sigh carried white breath into the air. Kings and dwarves and elves – even trapped together he had trouble making heads or tails of them. Still, his gaze strayed to the end of the passage and lingered there. There was something odd about Thranduil’s stillness…

Bard blinked.

Now, that was a possibility.

Casting a glance in the direction of Thorin and Balin, who seemed half-buried in their cloaks and resting uneasily, Bard pushed himself away from the wall, stifling a wince as his arm lit with a sharp warning ache. Bruised and beaten, he thought, recalling Balin’s words. Taking a moment to wonder if this was the best course of action, Bard momentarily started down to the end of the tunnel, where an elf king stood in the only shaft of pale light, his shoulders as straight and rigid as duty—or pride.

“My lord,” Bard called quietly, out of politeness more than anything. Startling elves was a skill far beyond his talents. “Are you suffering any from the cold?”

“Hardly.” Though pitched quite low, the word was clipped and measured. “Leave me.”

“Very well,” Bard said easily, matching his volume. Trusting his intuition, he stepped around Thranduil’s pooling robes and faced him head-on, blinking in the dim light until his eyes caught what they were looking for. “Then I suppose you were unharmed in the fall?”

Thranduil’s eyes caught the weak light, which showed them to be a reproachful icy blue. For beneath a dent in the silver thorns of his crown, a bead of blood had painted a curving line from temple to pointed ear. It was black in the near-darkness, but the path of it had touched the hair that fell over Thranduil’s ear, staining the pale gold strands.

“Crowns,” Bard commented, “ appear to be more trouble than they’re worth. I’m suddenly thankful I left mine behind.” Reaching into his pocket, he tugged out a scrap of clean linen – one of many that Sigrid forced into his hand each morning, still caught in the habit of providing bandages for one who no longer came home with blistered hands. “If I may, my lord.”

“It’s a trifling injury. Let it be.” The curt and dismissive tone wasn’t lost on Bard, and though it gave him a moment’s pause it didn’t stop him from offering the scrap of fabric, knowing Thranduil would like even less than his injuries the notion of being anything but splendid in the presence of dwarves. The linen was plucked from his fingers a moment later, Thranduil’s gaze predictably avoiding his.

It gave Bard all the opportunity he needed to kneel down and gently grasp the leg that the Elvenking had been favouring.

At the first fluid hiss of Elvish, Bard glanced up and smiled slightly. With his cloth crimped in a sudden fist and eyes like daggers drilling down at him, Thranduil’s glare could have stripped lacquer from wood.

“You can make a scene in front of Thorin,” Bard said in a low voice, “and let him know of your pain, or you may let me check your injury and keep your secrets.”

Knowing well that the choice was no choice at all, Bard didn’t bother waiting for Thranduil’s reply. With one hand on the inside of his knee for support, Bard carefully pushed aside the stiff folds of heavy silk, following the angle of the tear he’d seen earlier to Thranduil’s outer thigh. There the finely-woven fabric of his breeches was torn; a casualty of their unexpected fall. Bard was as gentle as he knew how to be, but if anything Thranduil stiffened even further as he felt around the injury for blood or anything that would need binding.

“Seems you’ll have a bruise or two,” Bard said eventually, “but there’s no gash or wound. Go easy on it.”

It was difficult to see in the near-darkness, even harder to see Thranduil’s face beyond the blue flash of his eyes, but Bard got the distinct impression that he was startled. He’d been careful to keep his actions shielded by the fall of Thranduil’s robes and his voice hushed as he spoke, both actions rather pointless when visibility was so poor in the tunnel. Neither Thorin nor Balin would have any idea that Thranduil had been injured in the fall. Surely preserving pride had been his only complaint.

“Would you next check my shoes for stones?” Thranduil asked with a hint of bite. “Or perhaps my ears for mites?”

“Don’t be foolish,” Bard replied mildly, pushing himself to his feet again. “It’s far too dark for that.”

Whatever bothered his esteemed ally, let it be his problem alone. It was too cold to entertain his foul mood. The tips of his fingers were stiff and there was a burgeoning shiver gathering between his shoulder-blades, threatening to roll through his entire body if he let it. Surely he was the frailest of them by virtue of his race, but it would do no good to show it.

It occurred to Bard that Thranduil’s pride was no greater than his own, and hesitated before returning to his chosen place to wait. Needling the elf-king was a poor way to pass the time.

“You’d be better off sitting a while, my lord. Rest your leg.”

“As I told you—” Thranduil began sharply, but was interrupted by Thorin’s impatient rumble from the other end of the tunnel.

“Bowman, get yourself back this way and warm your bones. There’s cloak enough to spare and I won’t have you freezing to death in my halls.”

“Such as they are right now,” Balin added, then grunted slightly, as though a kingly elbow had somehow found his ribs.

Bard cast a sceptical glance at Thranduil. He was obviously not included in their invitation, which seemed to amuse him if the twist of his mouth was any indication. There was, however, a strange and unfriendly light in his eyes that hadn’t been there a moment ago.

Giving up on playing peacemaker, Bard stepped around Thranduil and made to return to the dwarves. As he passed by, a strong hand snatched his wrist, hauling him to a stop. Pain bloomed in his injured arm and Bard might have protested at being awkwardly caught mid-step, if the fingers wrapped about the bend of his wrist hadn’t been stunningly warm against his skin. The shiver that had threatened a moment ago abruptly doubled in size.

“Sit down.” Steered backward a few paces, almost against the wall of the tunnel, Bard found himself bending to the pressure placed on his shoulders until his rear met cold stone. Baffled, he blinked up in the darkness, wondering exactly what this was supposed to accomplish. Further down the tunnel, the dark shapes of Thorin and Balin moved curiously against the wall, their muttering too low to hear.

It wasn’t until Thranduil lowered himself against the wall and spread his heavy silk outer robe wide that Bard realised he meant to share his warmth.

Uncomfortably perplexed by the notion and having no idea why—had he not been about to nestle himself gladly between two dwarves?—Bard’s confusion made him compliant as he was dragged backward into a nest of silk and strong limbs, the back of his head resting on a broad shoulder as robes as heavy and insulating as blankets were layered around them both. Before he knew it, he was swathed in the warmth of the Elvenking’s circumstantial embrace.

“If I ever raise an eyebrow at your ostentatious finery again, pluck it from my face,” Bard muttered, shuddering involuntarily as his body warmed up by small degrees. “Thank you.”

Thranduil made a small, thoughtful hum that reverberated through Bard’s shoulders. A strange sense of intimacy stole through him at the sensation, one he carefully ignored.

“This is no cause for thanks. The gesture allows me a seat and keeps you nearby, where I might question you: what could a bargeman know of healing?”

“That’s King Bargeman to you,” Bard replied, not bothering to keep the smile out of his voice. “I suppose I know as much as any who grew up poor and working a trade in Laketown. The Master thought little of healers and the coin they demanded, and so we had few. We learned to tend ourselves well enough with herbs and the like, when the hurts were small.” Settling back in greedy comfort as warmth returned to his limbs, Bard didn’t even bother to shift when a lock of hair that was not his drifted over his shoulder.

Thranduil didn’t pounce on the obvious opening in his response, opting instead to ensure Bard’s legs were as covered as the rest of him. Given Thranduil’s greater height and the length of his robes to begin with, both knew he was in no danger of a draught. Still, it seemed to improve the elf-king’s mood to do it, and anything that aided on that front was more than welcome.

“Found yourself a new cloak, I see,” Balin called, his tone conveying nothing in particular. “Perhaps it’s more your size.”

It was strange, Bard thought, how he spoke around Thranduil as though he were a piece of furniture. Thorin huffed a word or two beneath his breath, too low to hear. Bard’s mouth thinned.

“Aye, and quite familiar in its generosity.”

Behind him, Thranduil’s breathing stuttered.

A fraught silence descended, and within it Bard allowed himself a quick flash of satisfaction. Finally, Thorin had the small decency to clear his throat.

“Until we’re freed, the movement above might mean some amount of rock will fall. We’re under the stable path where the stone is stronger, so a safe sleep should be possible.” To Bard’s eyes he was little more than a hulking lump of fur and beard in the shadows, but he could imagine well enough the frown that would accompany the words.

A long night, then. A long night and the small possibility of being buried alive. It was likely unrelated, but when Thranduil shifted to bring his knee up beside Bard, tenting the robes around them both, a small sense of protective gladness rose in him. It created a wall between himself and the rest of the tunnel’s gloom. Or perhaps, to Thranduil’s mind, it created a barrier against the keen eyes of Thorin Oakenshield.

As they each sat to wait out the long hours until they were freed, Bard wondered what his children were thinking. Had they been told? Were they fretting? Who was watching over them? They would of course be safe and sound, but with so much fallen stone between them the distance felt enormous, and with it came a father’s concern. If the stone should truly fall upon them…ah, but it did no good to worry.

Overhead in the rock, something groaned quietly with pressure and fell silent. No-one commented on it, but the arm across Bard’s chest went rigid for a split-second.

He was pondering the merits of sleep sometime later when a sigh gusted along his ear, followed by the knock of a jawbone against his cheek. The worked silver of Thranduil’s crown glinted faintly in the corner of his eye. When he didn’t immediately acknowledge the movement, a shoulder jostled him slightly—almost accidentally.

Almost.

“This knot in your hair is vexing. Hold this.” The edges of the robe were guided to his hand and then Thranduil’s arms were snaking away, sliding beneath the fabric until Bard felt a gentle tug at the strip of leather that kept his hair tied away from his brow.

Blinking in surprise, he opened his mouth to protest, but nimble fingers had already unpicked the leather. The resulting motion freed the thick mess of his hair, where it tumbled about his face in an unruly wave. It was clean and smelled only of soap, but compared to the starlight strands currently hanging over his shoulder Bard knew to be a little self-conscious.

“You need only have said something,” he said wearily. “Now I’ll never get it back to rights.” Baring his hand to the cold air, he tried to comb it back only to see the piece of leather go sailing across the tunnel. He sagged slightly. “You—”

“Why defend me earlier?” Thranduil interrupted, his voice quiet so as not to rouse the dwarves. Long fingers delved into the thickness of his hair, doing something that tugged on the strands at his temple. “You know I require no such thing of you.”

“Less a matter of what’s required than what is right,” Bard said without a hint of apology. “Besides, you haven’t been yourself. It’s a dark day when my tongue is sharper than yours.”

When no immediate reply was forthcoming, only the tug and shift of his hair as it was woven, Bard realised he felt lighter for commenting on Thranduil’s strange behaviour. Had it been bothering him that much? He supposed it had.

“The last year has been long, and this mountain-load of stone above my head disagrees with me. The Greenwood recovers slowly and my son is far from my sight. Arguing with dwarf kings and their kin is a waste of my time.”

“But you have so much of it.”

“And you so little, yet you spend it speaking in defence of me,” Thranduil pointed out. “Angering Thorin in his own domain would be unwise.” Fingertips pushed lightly on the back of his skull, forcing Bard to bare the nape of his neck. He hoped it wasn’t turning into a braid, for Tilda would certainly spiral into a jealous rage at the sight.

“If only he could find a dungeon worse than this to throw me into,” Bard replied dryly. “What is it you’re doing back—ouch! Have a care, Thranduil.”

“There’s too much silver in your hair.” A pale shadow of a hand dropped something to the stone at his side. Bard had a horrible suspicion it was some of the offending strands. “I’m busying myself while we wait, lest I go insane with each shift of rubble and stone I hear overhead.”

“You can hear it?” A foolish question; of course he’d be able to, and wouldn’t appreciate the reminder if it bothered him so. Bard switched track. “If you pull each strand out you’ll send me bald.” Reaching up through the parted material, he scratched at the residual sting near his hairline.

“Nonsense. You’ve enough to be mistaken for a dwarf.” Another hot sting as a few more strands were plucked free. Bard gave up on polite protest and grabbed Thranduil’s hands, yanking them back under the thick robes. His skin was cold from his task, so Bard shoved them under his armpits and locked them in place where they could do no more harm. Thranduil gave a sour sort of sigh, but didn’t move.

“Try sleeping instead.” Budging himself backward slightly so he was more comfortable, Bard resolutely tipped his head back onto a silk-draped shoulder and slammed his eyes shut. Yes, sleep was the best solution for the wait.

For a while, it almost appeared that his advice had been taken to heart. There was no sound or movement behind or around him, and the hands trapped against his sides were still. Further away, someone snored softly. He thought it might have been Balin.

Bard was halfway to taking his own advice, drowsing gently on the fringes of sleep when he felt a smooth cheek drop against his, brushing the short whiskers along his jaw. It might have been an accident, until it happened again. And again. Before long it was a slow, rhythmic rasp, back and forth, back and forth in the deep silence of the tunnel.

Bard's eyes slid open in tired, unseeing resignation.

“When you end up with a horrible rash, I daresay I’ll tell everyone I meet that you were found in Balin’s passionate embrace. I’ll personally send my children door to door.” His only reply was a warm, amused exhale from Thranduil’s nose. “I thought elves were supposed to be patient.”

“I can hear the slide of heavy stone above us. Enough to crush even my bones to dust, my lord Bard.” Another long rasp of skin brushing skin, and a hot rush of breath sighed against his neck. “This is distracting enough, and the sound is pleasing to my ear.”

Distracting indeed, thought Bard as the smoothness of skin ran along the curve of his cheekbone and jaw, occasionally glancing into the warmer softness of lips closer to his ear. Thranduil’s breath was as warm and welcome as the rest of him, he realised with only faint dismay. All common knowledge dictated it should be his elven ally that recoiled at the contact, and yet he seemed to enjoy it.

Well, if it was a calming distraction to Thranduil, thought Bard, then let it be so. Settling back, he gave no more thought to it. He certainly didn’t lean over slightly to make it any easier for Thranduil to busy himself with his rasping abuse of his cheek.

“Is someone buttering toast?” Balin muttered in the darkness, still half-asleep. Bard said nothing, and eventually the snoring resumed once more.

The hours wore on slowly, and the temperature dropped with them. Soon even the robes that swathed him from shoulder to boots were failing to keep the cold out, and the shivers Bard had been staving off since the beginning of the fall began to make themselves known in small, wracking shudders. Behind him, Thranduil seemed unaffected, shifting only to turn Bard’s face against the column of his neck. His hand then settled against Bard’s exposed cheek, long white fingers sinking into his hair. That was how he slept a while, lulled into an uneasy farce of slumber.

Hunger picked at his stomach some time later, pulling him from strange dreams and back to the biting chill of the tunnel. Bard opened his eyes ineffectually to the darkness, which seemed more complete than ever. Yawning quietly, he tipped his head up until he could see the shaded planes of Thranduil’s face, but the eyes he found were vacant and staring, trancelike and unseeing.

His heart pounding in confused alarm, Bard rolled up onto his knees and cupped his hand over Thranduil’s mouth and nose, feeling for breath. The moment he did, he found it and a pair of confounded blue eyes staring straight into his, only inches away.

“Resting,” was the frank explanation. “I was merely resting.”

“Merely stripping ten years off my life,” Bard corrected, his heart beating a rhythm of painful relief. The robes had completely fallen away, but the fright had jolted his system enough that he was yet immune to the temperature. “With your eyes open? Honestly.”

“It’s our way.” When Bard could only frown wordlessly at him, palm still pressed to the corner of his mouth, Thranduil’s lips curved slightly. “You were concerned.”

“So I was.” There were a score of perfectly defensible reasons why, but Bard kept them trapped behind his teeth, letting out a long sigh through his nose and tipping his brow forward to rest against Thranduil’s. “It’s freezing and we’re trapped beneath stone untold. If you died here there’d be nowhere to put your corpse.”

Thranduil’s frown was so deep Bard could actually feel it against his face.

“A true disaster amidst so many mild inconveniences,” he said sourly, and for a moment all Bard could do was try not to laugh and wake the others.

Bard was still trying to control his mirth when Thranduil surged forward and kissed his mouth, masterfully stealing his breath and every thought with one long—extremely long—press of warm lips and searching tongue. It seemed to be a punishment, or something to quiet him, but when their mouths broke apart it was he who leaned in again, seeking Thranduil’s strange taste.

“We aren’t actually going to die down here,” Thranduil said without inflection, turning away at the last moment. “Don’t do something you’ll have cause to regret later, King of Dale.”

It was a warning, but a kind one, if anything that came out of Thranduil’s mouth could be considered such. Kings needed queens, after all, and Dale was only a year into its rebirth. But Bard knew the value of alliances and the difference between those and a friend, or even more than that, and he intended to keep them in whatever shape they came to him.

“In my experience,” Bard said quietly, his thumb tipping Thranduil’s face back, “it’s only hesitation that breeds regret.” He didn’t move to kiss him again.

The blue eyes locked with his were somehow luminous in the weak light that filtered down on them.

“Spoken like a true king of men.” Thranduil blinked slowly, obscuring his gaze with dark lashes. “I suppose it would fill my time.”

Bard simply nodded, the corner of his mouth quirking slightly. Punishment for the corpse line, no doubt. Or perhaps not, but it would be an interesting journey to sort truth from jest. Provided they ever got out of the tunnel, of course.

Turning back to lean against Thranduil, he tugged the robes back across them both and settled in for the wait.

When the faint stab of pick into rock eventually began to sound, warm light spearing into their dark pocket, it brought as much promise as it did freedom.

Bard found himself welcoming both.

 


End file.
